
































































When God Walks 
the Road 

AND 

Other Missionary 
Stories 


EDITED BY 

Sara Estelle Haskin 

w 


Nashville, Tenn. 

Dallas, Tex.; Richmond, Va. 
Publishing House of the M. E. Church, South 
Smith & Lamar, Agents 
1921 







COPYRIGHT, 1921 

BY 

SMITH & LAMAR 


\ 





dec -5 mi 


§)CI.A630587 

Ol ft. I- 


^Preface 

This book of short stories contains nine of the best we have 
collected during the past eight years, most of which we believe 
are worthy of a permanent place in missionary literature. 
They will be of interest to readers of all ages. “When God 
Walks the Road,” which is a real little missionary classic, was 
written by a member of our office force, Miss Alleine Fridy, who 
is a volunteer for missionary service. Because of very defective 
eyesight she is detained from the field. However, under this 
serious handicap she is giving to our Church through her 
beautiful stories an expression of her missionary purpose and 
spirit which will doubtless win for her many substitutes. 

Sara Estelle Haskin, 
Secretary in Charge of Literature. 
3 








































Contents 

Page 

When God Walks the Road. By Alliene Fridy. 7 

The Ten Wishes. By Helen Burr. 11 

Nance’s Dream Doll. By Emma K. Olmstead. 17 

Mongoonie the Brave. By Ellasue Wagner. 21 

Little Foe of All the World. By Grace Bigelow House. . 25 
The Story of a Great Choice. By Mary De Bardeleben . 30 
How Miung Ja Found Her Name. By Lillian Nichols. . . 33 
Kim Hong Til and the First “Bike.” By Ellasue Wag¬ 
ner. .. 38 

The Story of a Slave Boy Who Became Great. By Sara 

Estelle Haskin. 42 

Dorothy Finds a Way. By Etta Fulkerson. 46 

The Whitest Gift of All. By Harriet T. Comstock. 51 

1* 5 













. 





‘When Sod 7Sa/hs the ffload 

ALLIENE FRIDY 

“Mr. Roadman, has you ever seen God?" The earnest 
eyes of little lame Dick burned into those of the man at his 
bedside. The man’s feet shuffled uneasily, and his lips 
twitched. He didn’t know what to say. 

“Why—why—son, I guess—not,” he stammered uncer¬ 
tainly. “ What makes you ask that? ” 

Nervously his fingers closed over a tiny note which he still 
held. It read; 

Mr. Roadman: I’m Little Lame Dick, an' I lives on Hellhole Road. You can’t 
make no mistake as to my house. It’s the one with the black cat drawed on the dore. 
Please come. I got a letter fer you frum God. Little Lame Dick. 

And he had come; how foolish he felt only he knew. He 
had read the childish scrawl and tossed it aside as “some fool's 
joke.” He wouldn’t be made game of. But, strange to say, 
the words stuck. They wouldn’t let him go. “A letter from 
God!” He had never heard of such a thing. Pshaw! His 
eyes were getting bad. They had played him a trick; that 
was all. Let him read it again. He picked it up and un¬ 
folded it; yes, it said that very thing—“a letter from God.” 
The third time he read it. He couldn’t get away from it. 
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to see what was up. Nobody would 
know it here. So he got out his machine and chugged it over 
this bad road, and here he was at the little fellow’s side, 
listening to his strange greeting. 

“Have you ever seen God?” The question startled him. 
“ ’Cause if you ain’t,” went on the intense little tones, “ ’cause 
ef you ain’t, ef you don’t watch out, you will. I seen him last 
night.” His dark eyes were wide and bright. “I seen him 
last night, and that’s how come I to send for you. I wus a- 
lyin’ right here in this bed, same es I be now, an’ I wus lookin’ 
out at the road, ’memberin’ when I got hurted on it, ’cause it 

7 


When God Walks the Road 


wus so bad. The moon was a-lyin’ on it jes’ es sof’ an' 
white. All at onct it shined plumb fierce right acrost my eyes, 
en’ I had to shet 'em. 'Nen, when I opened ’em, it wusn’t 
this here road I was a-seein’ at all; it wus a long, shiny white 
one, same es milk runnin’ along. It jes’ run along fer as I 
could see, through little meadows where the grass was stan’in’ 
up thet prutty an’ green, an’ where little blue an’ white 
daisies wus peepin’ out all aroundst. I never seen ’em at 
first. There wus other flowers, too, prettier than I ever seen 
in all my life before. I was a-followin’ this road, an’ it went 
on an’ on past little streams of water whut shined an’ shined— 
like—like little streaks of silver, an’ on roun’ hills an’ hills 
whut wus diffunt colors in the light thet wus beamin’ ev’ry- 
where. They wus like colors I seen in rings at the stores in 
town—yellow an’ red an’ blue an’ green. At last it come to a 
city whut had houses an’ houses an’ houses, an’ all on ’em wus 
marble an’ gol’ an’ silver, an' wus liftin’ theyself up tell they 
tops teched the clouds. I wus too fer away ter see ’em good. 
An’ whilst I wus lookin’ hard at the fruits an’ things a-growin’ 
all along the banks of the stream close ter where I wus—they 
wus all kinds there—I happin to look forward, ahed o’ me, an’ 
there, cornin’ fas’ to meet me, wus chilluns an’ chilluns, jes’ 
like me, only none of ’em was lame in the leg nor wore pants 
an’ bodies fer clothes. Some kine o’ cloth—whiter’n snow— 
flew’d from the shoulders es they run. This wus helt up there 
by little breastpins ‘o’ rocks with all kines o’ light flashin’ in 
’em. All these boys an’ girls was laffin’ an’ talkin’ an’ singin', 
but the noise didn’t sound loud. They jes’ crowded roundst 
me all at onct, same es ef lame legs an’ livin’ in Hellhole didn’t 
count. 

“‘Little lame Dick! Little lame Dick!’ they all sings, 
sof’ an’ joyful an’ glad, es they ketched hands an’ danced 
along. An’ seems es if I could dance good es any of ’em.” 

“An’ then whut you reckin I seen?” The little fellow’s, eyes 
grew darker, and his face was full of wonder. Whut you 
reckin I seen? Why, I seen God cornin’ down right out o’ 
thet beautiful city, takin’ a walk same es me! And all the 
little chilluns shout happy an’ run to meet him. I runned too. 

8 


When God Walks the Road 


He come right straight on to where I wus, not sayin’ nuthin’, 
but jes’ smilin’. 'Nen a light shined in my eyes, an’ I jes’ 
fell down at his feets an’ whispers: ‘O God, ain’t it prutty? 
Ain’t no rocks ner holes ner washouts, ner stumps an’ rotten 
fences long it, is there? Ner no branches with quicksands in 
’em.’ 

“‘No, chile,’ he answers; ‘them ain’t seen on God’s road. 
God walks a clean an' white an’ lovely road.’ 

“’Nen, Mr. Roadman, tears run out o’ my eyes onto thet 
road. I wus that skeered when I see ’em, fer fear they’d ruin 
it; but God ses, right straight off: ‘Let ’em alone; they can’t 
hurt. Happpy tears makes the way prettier; they is dia¬ 
monds on it.’ An’ he lifted me up. 'Nen, Mr. Roadman, 
he ketched my han’ an’ ses: ‘Walk in peace with me. Come.’ 

“I went. ‘God,’ I ses es we went along, ‘don’t you never 
walk nowhere else? Don’t you never walk along on Hellhole 
Road? I wisht you would.’ 

“ ‘ No, little lame Dick,' he says, ‘ I can’t. It ain’t fit.’ 

“‘Mebbe Mr. Roadman would clean it up ef he knowed 
about you might walk there then,’ I ses. 

“‘Well, I’ll jes’ have to wait,’ ses God. ‘But, little lame 
Dick, couldn’t you do something ’bout it?’ he ses. 

“‘Me?’ I ses. ‘Why, God, I ain’t nuthin’ but a little bit 
of a boy. ’Sides that, I can’t walk nowheres.’ 

“‘I know it,’ he ses; ‘but there’s things little folks can do, 
even if they is boys an’ lame. I’m going to count on you.’ 

“ ’Nen he laid his han’ light on my head. An’ I jes’ thort ef 
every little boy knowed God wus countin’ on him, whut 
wouldn’t he do? ’Nen God said some more. 

“‘Little lame Dick,’ he ses, ‘you take these words to Mr. 
Roadman, thet tends to Hellhole Road. Take these: 

“ ‘Mr. Roadman: Did you know you's keepin’ God from little lame Dick's 
road1 He can’t walk there. It ain’t fit. 

“ ‘Signed in heaven. God. 

“ ‘ I can trust you with this, can’t I, little lame Dick? ’ he ses 
then. 

“’Nen, Mr. Roadman, I wanted to say ‘Yes’; but all to 
onct I couldn’t find my voice. But he knowed, an’ jes’ pat- 

9 


When God Walks the Road 


ted my head, an’ was gone. So here ’tis, Mr. Roadman; here 
’tis, the note he give me. I writ it myself, an I ain’t much 
on writin’. But you’ll clean it up, won’t you, mister? You’ll 
clean up Hellhole, so es God can come to see me. ’Cause 
where God walks the road’s clean. You’ll do it, won’t you, 
mister? ” Wistful tears stood in his eyes. 

Something got in the big man’s throat. “I’ll try, son,” he 
promised. 

“An ’nen,’’ added little lame Dick happily, “an ’nen maybe 
you’ll git to see God walkin’ on this road too, fer one end’s 
yourn.” 

“I hope so, boy,” answered the road commissioner earnest¬ 
ly as he went away, wondering how many places he had kept 
God from. 

10 


TJhe XJen Wishes 

HELEN BURR 

"You quit that, Willie. Ma said for us to feed the baby 
while she was gone.” 

It was Annie May who spoke. Her voice was harsh and 
loud, so that it could be heard above the rumble of the great 
cotton mill just across the way. Her mother was in that 
mill, working from six in the morning until half past five in 
the afternoon; and Annie May, who was only eleven, kept 
house and looked after the three youngest children. Willie, 
her brother, was the oldest, almost a man, he thought. Was 
he not thirteen, old enough to go to work in the cotton mill? 
Therefore he felt that he had a right to tease his sister by of¬ 
fering the baby bits of an old banana that he had snatched 
from the fruit wagon when the man was not looking. 

"You quit, I say. Don't pick her up. Her back is too 
limber. And ma said that if you touched that soft spot on 
top of her head she'd go crazy. How would you like— Now 
just look there! You woke her up, and she’ll yell like every¬ 
thing. You’ve got to mind her, ’cause”— 

But Willie did not stay to hear the rest. He darted down 
the dirty back alley to join his gang for a game of marbles. 

Annie May had only the satisfaction of yelling after him: 
" I’m goin to tell ma that you played hookey from school this 
mornin’.” 

Bits of sweet potato and bread crumbs littered the dirty 
floor; a pile of unwashed dishes and a frying pan cluttered the 
stove; flies swarmed through the unscreened windows and 
doors. Every drawer of the cheap bureau was wide open; 
and clothing was strewn about on the trunk, on the one chair, 
and the unmade bed. In front of the house the other two 
children were playing boat in a big open drain. They were 
wet and very dirty. Surely there were a great many things 

11 


When God Walks the Road 


that Annie May ought to do before the whistle blew and her 
mother, with many other paste-colored, tired, linty women, 
came drearily out of the big mill gate. But now the baby 
was crying, and she must think up a way to stop her first. 
She leaned over and joggled the squeaky springs on the bed. 
The baby only cried harder as her thin little legs and arms 
waved about in indignant hunger. 

Ah, Annie May had an inspiration! Gently she placed her 
own not-any-too-clean finger into the baby’s mouth. 

This worked well, but only for a moment. The baby was 
crying harder than ever. Sometimes ma made baby laugh 
by playing with her fingers and toes. Almost ready to cry 
herself, Annie May tried this. “O goodness!” she said. “If 
I had as many wishes as you have fingers and a fairy god¬ 
mother hiding behind the bed to grant them, I’d wish first 
that you’d hush.” 

As if by magic the crying stopped, for baby had seen some¬ 
thing that Annie may did not notice—the smiling face of the 
deaconess from the Wesley House. She was passing and had 
peeped in the front window. “O, goody!” said the tired lit¬ 
tle girl. “If only I could have my nine other wishes as easy 
as that!” She forgot the work that was waiting for her. 
Grown-up as she was forced to be in many ways, there was 
nothing she liked better than a game of “play-like.” “I 
wish,” she said in a low, mysterious voice, “I wish I could 
have ice cream and cake, lots of it, every single day of my 
life.” 

Miss Lucy—for that was what the children called the dea¬ 
coness—waited a moment to hear what her little friend was 
saying so softly to herself. “ Would it not be most nice,” she 
thought, “if I could play like I were the fairy godmother? 
No, I wouldn’t give her just what she wished for; but I would 
give her something better. I could ask her mother to let her 
come to one of our little cooking classes. There she could 
wear a little white cap and apron and be taught to cook in all 
sorts of tempting ways the simple food her mother can afford 
to buy.” 

But Annie May was speaking again: “And, fairy god- 

12 


When God Walks the Road 


mother behind the bed, for my third wish I’d like to have a 
pile of lovely dresses.” 

Miss Lucy winced at this. “Well, never mind,” she 
thought. “I can answer that in a way too. She can come 
to our sewing school and learn to embroider and crochet lace 
and even make pretty, bright dresses for herself.” 

“But mercy me!” Annie May was saying. “I’d look fine 
living in this pig pen in such grand dresses. I wish this little 
old house was a palace.” 

The woman at the window shifted her weight to the other 
foot and stifled a sigh. She too had become so tired of little, 
boxlike, dirt-colored houses, all just exactly alike, set in rows, 
and just five feet apart. Some day, perhaps, things would 
be changed so that these people could have real homes in which 
to live, and they could be taught how to keep them clean and 
tidy. But this would be a long time coming, and even then 
the finest house would not look sweet and homelike unless 
things should be changed so the people could have real homes 
in which to live. If only the people could be trained for bet¬ 
ter work and the rich mill owner would give higher wages! 
Then the people might have homes of their own, and the 
mothers could stay at home and keep them. No, she could 
not give her little friend a palace, but to-morrow morning she 
would stop in and show her how to make the untidy rooms 
look neat. Perhaps if she brought over that picture of “The 
Choir Girls” to put on the mantel Annie May would want to 
clear away all the pile of coco-cola bottle tops, pill boxes, 
snuff cans, and numberless other things; then next week she 
would ask her to come to the housekeepers’ class. The girls 
in this class learned to sweep and dust and scrub, wash dishes, 
make up beds, and lots of other things. They learned not 
only to do their work well, but to love to do it, to make house¬ 
work just one jolly game and to sing over the hard places. 

“For wish number five, fairy godmother,” said Annie May, 
“I’d like to have this here mill village all green grass and big 
trees and bright flowers, like the park.” 

Miss Lucy's little bag bulged. She felt it and smiled. She 
had just bought quite a lot of flower seeds for all the bright 
1** 13 


When God Walks the Road 


little gardens she hoped her boys and girls would be making 
this spring. To-morrow morning she would bring Annie May 
a large package of nasturtium seeds, and Willie could haul 
the rich earth for her. The boys’ club had already set out 
some new trees and had declared that they would “wallop” 
any “feller” who broke a limb or tried to do any fancy climb¬ 
ing. Perhaps the village could never look as pretty as the 
park, but in a few months it ought to look quite bright with 
flowers. 

Annie May had been counting off her wishes on the tiny 
fingers of her baby sister, and she had used up one hand. Now 
she took up the other and started with the thumb. For a 
long time she thought hard; then she caught sight of the bright 
bill posted on the high mill fence. It was an ugly moving- 
picture advertisement. “I wish I could go to the movies 
every single night,” sighed Annie May. 

The muscles in Miss Lucy’s arms twitched. She hated the 
glaring sign. How often she had longed to rush over and 
tear it off bit by bit with her own hand! Why did they show 
her people such dreadful things? She’d get the best of them 
somehow. She’d make Annie May and the rest of the chil¬ 
dren have such a happy time at the play hour and the party 
Saturday night that maybe they would forget the ugly sign. 

From one of the top rows of mill windows some one was 
waving. It was mamma signaling to the other two little 
ones to stop playing in the ditch. 

“I wish ma didn't have to work in that old mill,” Annie 
May said. 

“So do I.” Miss Lucy forgot and almost spoke out loud. 
But just now the best thing she could do would be to get the 
children into the day nursery, so Annie May could go to 
school. 

Just then there was a thump as if some one had thrown 
himself down on the little front porch. 

“There’s Willie,” said Annie May; and the color came into 
her yellow face as she remembered how angry she was with 
him. “I wish he just had to go to school. He feels so 
“bigity.” 


14 


When God Walks the Road 


Then the color came into the deaconess’ face, not from an¬ 
ger, but from shame. It always made her feel this way when 
she remembered that she lived in a State that let its boys and 
girls go into factories and mills at thirteen years of age, and 
that it had no laws to make mothers and fathers send their 
children to school. 

There was a slight groan from the direction of the porch. 

“What’s the matter, Willie?” asked his sister anxiously. 

“Aw, nothin’; I’m just chillin’.” 

“I wish,” said Annie May softly, “I wish there weren’t no 
sich things as chills.” A fly tickled baby’s nose and almost 
made her cry. “Nor flies,” she said as she brushed it away. 

How easy it would be to grant both of these wishes at once! 
If only the city would drain off all this standing water and send 
the garbage wagons around once a day instead of once a week! 
If the people would only keep their back yards clean and put 
screens in their windows and doors! 

Now there was only one wish left. The girl was holding a 
very wee little finger and wondering what this last wish should 
be. To console herself the baby put her other fist as far into 
her mouth as it would go. 

“ Now, you listen carefully, fairy godmother, ’cause this is 
the very importantest wish of all. I wish I was as good as 
Miss Lucy,” said Annie May. 

There was a mist before the deaconess’ eyes. She nearly 
tripped over the two boards that formed a bridge over the 
wide ditch. 

Just as Miss Lucy reached her own particular little dirt- 
colored cottage the great mill whistle blew. Suddenly the 
whir of machinery stopped, and almost at once the people be¬ 
gan to troop out. It was her custom to sit here on the steps 
when the days were warm and the mill closed before dark. 
Her friends had learned to watch for her. They stopped to 
speak or, if not too tired, smiled as they passed. She knew 
and loved them all. 

“Work run bad to-day,” said a bent woman whom three 
little children were running to meet. 

15 


When God Walks the Road 


“See you terrackly at night school,” called out three gig¬ 
gling girls who waved to her from across the street. 

But now they had all gone in for supper. Smoke was com¬ 
ing out of the rows of chimneys and the big mill stack. With 
all her soul Miss Lucy longed for color, music, laughter. She 
watched the black smoke curl, dip, and rise again as it poured 
out of the tall, straight stack. The air was heavy with the 
smell of cabbage. From open doors mothers with arms akim¬ 
bo shouted for boys whom they had not seen since early morn¬ 
ing. 

“Hello, Miss Lucy. I was just thinking of you,” said a 
voice close by. It was Annie May, who had come to draw 
water from the faucet. 

“And I was thinking of you, too,” answered the deaconess. 

“That’s funny, ain’t it?” called back the little girl as she 
went off with her drippimg bucket. 

For a time Miss Lucy sat in the twilight, still thinking of 
Annie May’s ten wishes. At last she arose, saying to herself: 
“Yes, in the next ten to-morrows Annie May’s godmother 
will surely help bring to pass some of those ten wishes not only 
for her, but for all the children of this poor, unhappy mill vil¬ 
lage.” 

16 


9/anco’s *Drcam *Doll 

EMMA K. OLMSTEAD 

He towered head and shoulders above everybody else—this 
white-bearded patriarch of the mountains—as he made his 
way through the crowded store to the department where he 
had been told dolls were on display. A new shipment had 
just come in from the East; and though it was a bleak cold 
day early in December, the store, thronged with people, evi¬ 
denced the fact that the shoppers were observing the slogan: 
44 Do your Christmas shopping early.” 

The tired little clerk who had been working all the morning 
on the shipment of dolls had just finished arranging the last 
one when she observed the giant figure of the mountaineer. 
Wearily she turned to him with the customary “What is it, 
please?” But the tall man, whose thinness was accentuated 
by his scanty attire and very shabby clothes, did not hear her 
voice, for he stood as if transfixed by the sight before him. 
His eyes seemed to take in the whole assortment of dolls with 
one sweep; then his gaze traveled to each one, as though unde¬ 
cided whether to buy out the whole supply. He didn’t know 
there were so many kinds and sizes of dolls in all the world. 
But there they were, dolls dressed in dazzling creations of 
muslin and ribbon and lace, some in long clothes to represent 
real live babies, some dressed as sailor boys and soldiers in 
khaki, and still others in nurses’ uniforms, with little red 
crosses on their arms. After his eyes had feasted on each 
one, he turned bewilderedly to the clerk, whom he had ob¬ 
served for the first time, though she had watched the varying 
expressions play across his wrinkled face. 

44 Are there any of the dolls that you like? We think we 
have an especially fine lot, as dolls are expensive articles this 
year. As you are the first customer in this department, how- 

17 


When God Walks the Road 


ever, since the boxes were opened, you are fortunate in hav¬ 
ing your choice of all of them.” 

Still the man said nothing as he stood awkwardly twisting 
his hat between his fingers. Then after a long pause he spoke, 
as though addressing the dolls: “I wush Nance wuz hyar.” 
He realized he had uttered his thoughts aloud, when the clerk 
turned to him, saying: ‘‘Well, if Nance is your little girl for 
whom you want to buy the doll, perhaps I can help you select 
one, as I have two little tots at home.” 

‘‘O, but Nance ain’t my leetle gal; yo’re plumb mistaken 
about that.” 

‘‘Perhaps, then,” insisted the clerk, ‘‘you wish it for your 
little grandchild or a*neighbor’s child.” 

“No’m, yo’re wrong again. Nance ain’t neither my leetle 
gal ner my gran’child ner my neighbor’s. Nance is my ol’ 
woman, an’ I want ter git her the finest an’ the purtiest doll 
in yer store. It ain’t no Christmas gift neither, fer I ’low ter 
give it to her soon as I git back. An’, mom, I jes’ have ter git 
it ter day, fer I'm seventeen miles from home.” 

When the little clerk had recovered her self-possession she 
found her interest in the big man by her side so intense that 
she asked if she might know why he was giving his wife such 
a gift. He looked down into her face searchingly with his 
keen gray eyes, and then, fully satisfied that her question 
was not prompted by idle curiosity, for her clear blue eyes had 
met his unflinchingly, he commenced: ‘‘Well, mom, if I ain’t 
a-takin' up too much of yer time, I ’low I'd like ter tell you 
about Nance an’ how cum me ter git this hyah doll for her.” 
His face took on another expression, and his eyes were filled 
with a mellow light that he seemed wholly unconscious of, 
for domestic affection is seldom expressed by the mountain 
people, though it is deep and real for all that. “ Nance, poor 
critter,” he continued in a low voice, “ must hev been born in 
a land of do without, fer that’s what she’s ben doin’ ever sence 
she wuz a leetle gal. Her pap and maw wuz pore, an’ it wuz 
all they could do ter git somethin’ ter eat an’ wear fer her an’ 
the big fam’ly uv chillern. But ever sence Nance wuz big 
enough ter reckerlec’ anything she sez she alius wanted a fine 

18 


When God Walks the Road 


doll all hern. She had seed one onct when some fine folks 
wuz a-passin' through an’ stopped fer a spell at their house. 
They hed a leetle gal with ’em, an’ she had jes’ the kin’ uv 
doll Nance had alius dreamt about. It wuz the onlies’ purty 
doll she’d ever seed in all her life, fer them rag ones her maw 
made wuzn’t purty. She dreamt about different kinds, an’ 
sometimes, she sez, they hed purty yaller curls an’ blue eyes, 
and ag’in they hed long brown hair with them kind uv eyes ter 
match, an’ sometimes them dreams wuz so real she’d wake up 
in the night ter hug them dolls ter her, an’ her leetle arm would 
jes’ be reachin’ out with nary nothin’ in ’em. Well, mom, 
Nance growed all the way ter sixteen without ever gittin’ 
past them rag dolls an’ them she seed in her dreams. I lived jes’ 
a few mile up the creek from ’em, an’ whenever I passed their 
place an’ heerd Nance a-singin’ as she an’ her maw plowed the 
fields, I sez to myself, ‘Nance is a-goin’ ter be mine some day, 
if I hev ter fight fer her'; but, mom, I was not the onliest fel¬ 
ler thet hed them same thoughts, fer she wuz jes’ as nice an’ 
sweet to all the fellers that come a-courtin’ her. I jes’ kep’ 
on a-goin’, though, until them other fellers quit a-comin’, an' 
I tell you the sun never wuz so bright ner the flowers purtier 
than that day when she put her leetle han’ in my big one and 
promised she'd marry me. She wuz the gentles’ little critter 
you ever seed, an’ her voice wuz jes’ as sweet an’ clear as a bell. 
When we went ter meetin’ together durin’ our courtin’ days, 
I'd ruther hear Nance sing than hear all the preachin’ fer 
fifty mile aroun’. Well, we wuz married, an’ we moved twen¬ 
ty mile up the creek, whar I bought a leetle patch of groun’ 
an’ built a cabin on it. There wuzn’t no cabin fer a hundred 
mile aroun’ thet hed two sech happy critters in it as me and 
Nance." 

The old patriarch paused a moment, lost in the memories of 
those other days, and the little clerk stood quite still, for there 
was a tightening of her own throat that she had never expe¬ 
rienced before. 

“ Well, mom, would you believe it? Nance an’ me has been 
married fifty year ter-day, an’ can’t you guess why I mus’ git 
back ter that cabin 'twixt now and nightfall an’ take the fines’ 

19 


When God Walks the Road 


doll in yer store ter my ol’ woman? Do you know it seems 
quar ter me, but somehow this las’ year Nance jes’ lives over 
over an’ over an’ over them days when she wuz a leetle gal; 
an’ jes’ t’other night she woke me up a-sayin’: ‘Well, I reckon 
I’m a-goin’ ter live an’ die an’ never git thet fine doll I alius 
wanted an’ dreamt about.’ An’ you know, mom, ef I hed hed 
the cash—you know, don’t yer, thet I’d hev got thet doll for 
her. But times wuz hard, an’ I jes’ couldn’t see my way cl’ar; 
but I made some money on a leetle crop this year, an’ I ain’t 
a-goin’ back to them hills of ol’ Kaintuck without that fine 
doll fer my ol’ woman.” 

The little clerk made no response, but she looked over into 
his face with a sweet smile and then quietly went over to where 
a life-sized doll, dressed as a little baby, lay with its beautiful 
blue eyes and golden ringlets, making a picture that she 
would not soon forget. Carrying it in her arms as though it 
were a bit of real humanity, she handed it to the smiling man, 
saying: ‘‘I think this must be the doll that Nance dreamed 
about, and I believe she would like to have it as your gift to 
her.” 

He looked down at it lovingly as it lay in his arms, stroked 
its curls rather awkwardly, and, handing it back, said: “Yes, 
mom, thank yer, I 'low it’s the doll she wants, an’ I’m glad yer 
heerd my story, fer somehow yer appears ter understand.” 

The money was paid, the doll was put in a long box and 
carefully wrapped to shield it from the wintry blasts of the 
December weather, and the old man made his way out of the 
store. The clerk smiled affectionately at him as she noticed 
his buoyant step and his great head thrown back as he carried 
the precious bundle under his arm. She was still standing, 
lost in her own thoughts as she pictured that home-coming 
and the light on Nance’s face when the doll was laid in her 
arms, when suddenly she was startled by a voice at her side, 
and, rousing herself with a mighty jerk, she turned with the 
customary “What is it, please?” 

20 


y/fongoorne the ffirave 

ELLASUE WAGNER 

The innkeeper gave a hard, sarcastic laugh, slapped his fat 
hand on his neighbor’s knee, and said: “Have you heard the 
latest news? Kim Su Bang and his entire family, including 
Mongoonie, his bright fifteen-year-old son, have become fol¬ 
lowers of that new religion, the Jesus believers.” 

The others listened with mouths wide open, Could it be 
that their mountain homes were to be invaded by this new 
danger? 

Pak was the first to find his speech. “ What do these Jesus 
people believe?” he inquired. 

“I don’t exactly know,” answered the keeper; “but one 
thing is sure: they think this Jesus whom they worship is very 
powerful. Old Kim Han says they are very brave and can 
endure trials and hardships with seeming joy. It may be they 
pretend like the priests we know.” 

“ It would be worth while to put some one to the test, ’ ’ sug¬ 
gested the strong-minded Pak. 

The shuffling of feet on the veranda announced that a new¬ 
comer had arrived and was removing his heavy wooden shoes. 
Kim Mongoonie, a timid slip of a lad, came into the room 
and after greeting the men sat down quietly to wait for his 
father. 

The men turned questioning eyes to Pak, and with a sug¬ 
gestive nod he accepted the opportunity as one well fitted to 
test the faith of a believer. 

“Say, my boy,” Pak began, “did you hear or see any 
signs of the ‘old gentleman of the mountains’ as you came 
over? ” 

Mongoonie’s heart gave a wild leap and almost stopped 
beating. No, he had not heard or seen anything. The men 
told the news of a prowling tiger, but he felt secure in the 
1 *** 21 


When God Walks the Road 


knowledge that his father would soon be there from the city 
where he took his cord wood to sell. Mongoonie had come to 
the inn on the south side of the pass to meet his father. 

In the folklore of Korea the beasts play a prominent part, 
and the “old gentleman of the mountains,” the tawny tiger, 
is the most majestic and the most feared. Strong men and 
timid children alike whisper his name. From the most an¬ 
cient times he has been the object of religious reverence. 

As the men huddled over the coals they told stories of the 
tiger. They were blood-curdling, hair-raising stories of ad¬ 
venture, which ranged from old folklore tales of supernatural 
deeds to recent bloody tragedies. 

Mongoonie listened spellbound, while the men seemed to 
have forgotten his existence. After Pak had finished a very 
weird yarn of a ghostly tiger’s raid, there was a minute’s si¬ 
lence. Then, turning to Mongoonie, he said: “ By the way, I 
hear that you and your family have become followers of the 
Jesus doctrine.” 

Instantly the shadows were all gone from Mongoonie’s 
eyes, and he answered: “Yes, that is true. The world is very 
different now to us.” 

The men were suspicious, yet deeply interested as they 
looked into the bright face before them. They moved un¬ 
easily as the dry voice of Pak continued: “ Is that so? I have 
heard that you folks think your God is stronger than all others 
and that Jesus’s believers are very brave.” 

“Our God is the only true God. He made heaven and 
earth and everything else. He keeps and cares for his chil¬ 
dren,” answered Mongoonie. 

“Now, look here, boy,” said Pak, “are you not afraid of the 
‘old gentleman of the mountains,' just like other folks?” 

Mongoonie saw his dilemma. He felt that the time of trial 
to his faith had come. He could not deny his Lord. He 
must tell the truth. For a moment he closed his eyes as he 
lifted his heart in prayer for help. Then, feeling the glow of 
joy in the Master’s presence, he turned again to the men and 
said calmly: “Truly, as you talked my heart was touched 
with terror at the thought of meeting the ‘old gentleman of 

22 


When God Walks the Road 


the mountains.’ It would be a hard death to die in his cruel 
clutches. My human heart feared, but my new heart knows 
no fear except that of sin, which alone can separate me from 
God.” 

The men leaned forward to listen as he then read from a 
little black book: “Be strong and of good courage, be not af¬ 
frighted, neither be thou dismayed; for I will be with thee 
whithersoever thou goest.” As he closed the book he said: “I 
will trust and not be afraid.” 

“But you are afraid to go home to-night just the same,” 
sneered Pak as he scrambled to his feet. 

“I am waiting for my father,” said Mongoonie. “He is to 
meet me here on the way from the city.” 

“That reminds me,” said Pak. “I forgot to tell you that 
your father asked me to tell you that he has been delayed by 
business and cannot return until the second day of the new 
moon.” 

Mongoonie realized that he was on trial for his faith as he 
had never been before. He knew well that the stories of a 
tiger’s being near were probably true. The ten li over the 
mountain pass were dark and rough—the very place for a 
tiger’s haunt. 

The men stood and watched the boy as he drew on his cloak 
and hood and prepared to leave. “Are you really going to 
cross the mountain?” they asked in tones of surprise, for they 
had been sure that the shrinking, timid boy would falter and 
fail. 

“Yes,” he answered. “The tiger may kill my body, but he 
cannot touch my soul, which is my true self. Jesus is with 
me, and when I am afraid I will trust in him.” 

It was long past midnight when a tired, trembling boy ar¬ 
rived at the straw-thatched hut on the other side of the moun¬ 
tain. The mother, who also had heard tales of the prowling 
tiger, was anxiously waiting for him and drew him into the 
house. Neither of them noticed a crouching form in the dark 
shadows of the lonely trail. 

A few minutes after the boy and woman had vanished be¬ 
hind well-bolted doors the crouching form in the shadows of 

23 


When God Walks the Road 


the pine trees quickly straightened up. It was Pak with his 
old muzzle-loading rifle. He heaved a sigh of relief as he 
arose. “A plucky youngster, that!” he mumbled; and the 
hunter’s ear and eye were alert and watchful as he hastened 
with noiseless tread to the top of the pass. “ I sort o’ felt that 
I ought to look after him to-night,” he said half aloud, while 
his lips took on a curve more tender than any they had known 
for years. “Must be something in that doctrine if it can 
make a frightened boy face the ‘old gentleman of the moun¬ 
tains’ at midnight. I wonder if it would help me face evil 
things.” 

The next Sabbath morning none was more surprised than 
Mongoonie when big Pak and the innkeeper stepped forward 
and gave their names as inquirers wishing to know the way of 
peace and safety. 

24 


£ title Joe of Mil the World 

GRACE BIGELOW HOUSE 

“So you have been fighting again, Little Foe of All the 
World?" said the Lady as she replaced with a clean white 
handkerchief the dirty, discolored rag that Thaddeus was 
using to mop the blood from his face. 

“ What yo’ call me, muh? " said Thaddeus suspiciously as he 
glanced up in the Lady’s face. 

“Little Foe of All the World. Don’t you think that is a 
good name for one who fights so much?" 

“I don’ nebber fight, nohow, muh," was the unexpected 
response. 

“O, come, Thaddeus, what are you telling me now?" said 
the Lady. 

“I ’spect I tellin’ lies, muh," said the boy as he turned his 
face away and puckered up his lips to conceal a smile. 

“Thaddeus," commenced the Lady seriously and then 
stopped, for she knew not what to say. 

Thaddeus was nobody’s boy. He had just “happened" 
into the Corner Plantation and had stayed there. Since then 
he had lived with Uncle Scipio Fripp—not because Uncle 
Scipio had adopted him, but rather because Thaddeus had 
adopted Uncle Scipio. He was free to roam all day if he 
chose, and often on Sunday, when Uncle Scipio would lock up 
his cabin and go away until Monday, Thaddeus would look 
out for himself. The neighbors fed him; and when night 
came he just crept into a corner of the little shop by the road 
and slept. Because he felt that nobody cared what became 
of him, Thaddeus didn’t care, either; his greatest joy was in 
fighting every boy he met. 

The Lady was the principal of a school where Negro boys 
and girls for miles around were learning to read and write, to 
be good farmers, and to make things with their hands. So 

25 


When God Walks the Road 


now the Lady said rather abruptly: “Thaddeus, would you 
like to go to school? ” 

Thaddeus was on his guard immediately. “ Dunno, muh, 
’spect dey might beat me. I t’ink dey might kill me dere.” 

The Lady threw back her head and laughed so heartily that 
presently Thaddeus’s solemn face relaxed. Laughter lurked 
in the corners of his eyes, and his white teeth gleamed. 

“Well, good-by, Thaddeus; you are a funny boy,” laughed 
the Lady as she moved away. 

One day, not long after, Thaddeus found himself dangling 
his bare legs from a bench in the front row of St. John House. 
His teacher, Miss Joyce, found her already taxing and strenu¬ 
ous life made doubly hard by the presence of this “Little Foe 
of All the World.” 

A new world and new interests opened up to Thaddeus 
from his first day of school. Hitherto he had spent all the 
energies of his eight or nine years in a struggle for something 
to eat, a place to sleep in, and a foe to fight. Now with the 
same energy he flung himself into the pursuit of knowledge. 
Consequently Thaddeus found that he did not have as much 
time for fighting, although he still managed to keep in prac¬ 
tice. 

At the school there was one boy with whom Thaddeus never 
fought. His name was August. He was thin and shy, very 
different from the sturdy, masterful Thaddeus; but he and 
Thaddeus became fast friends. They went everywhere to¬ 
gether, and Thaddeus fought many a fist battle to protect 
August from the other boys. 

It was a sad day for Thaddeus when vacation approached. 
The school doors were closed, the teacher disappeared, and 
even August, who lived on a far-away plantation, went home 
for the summer. Never before had Thaddeus felt so lonely, 
and never had he had more time and inclination to get into 
trouble. 

One day Uncle Scipio went to Savannah. He locked up 
the cabin, shut up the chickens, and left Thaddeus to his own 
devices; and Thaddeus’s devices, as usual, brought him to 
grief. He stole all the eggs and a couple of chickens and sold 

26 


When God Walks the Road 


them to a man going to Beaufort, for he was keen enough to 
know that he might be questioned if he tried to sell them at 
the store. When Uncle Scipio returned he was very angry. 
He whipped Thaddeus and told him he was going to send him 
home. The whipping Thaddeus received with loud, lusty 
howls, for that, he knew, was expected of him; but at the men¬ 
tion of his former home his terror was intense and real. He 
did not realize that Uncle Scipio had no notion where his home 
might be. His voice grew shrill and piteous as he begged: “ Kill 
me, do anything to me! Don’ send me back! Don’ send me 
back to dat woman! You kin kill me, I don’ mind, but don' 
send me back! I cyan’t go, I cyan't go!” 

The old man looked curiously at Thaddeus as he said; 
“Dere, sonny, shet yo’ mouf and stop yo’ noise”; and the 
subject was dropped. But Thaddeus was subdued. He 
lived in constant dread of that careless threat. In those days 
he forgot to laugh. 

When school began in the fall Thaddeus almost forgot the 
fear that had haunted him all summer. He wouldn’t be sent 
“back ” now. It was easy to be good with August to play and 
work and laugh with, and there were so many interesting 
things to learn that he had little time to think about fighting 
or stealing chickens. 

The Lady almost forgot that she had called Thaddeus “Lit¬ 
tle Foe of All the World.” But one day as she was standing 
at the door of her house she saw Uncle Scipio striding toward 
her. He was leading Thaddeus by the collar. “ I ain’t neber 
wants see dat chile no more,” he cried. “Las’ night he done 
stole my chickens, an’ I stood mo’ tribulation from dat limb 
o’ Satan till I cyan’t stand no mo'. I jes’ wash my han’s 
clean ob all hims debilments an’ contrariness, an’ now I leave 
him to you an’ de Lord. I pray de Lord you have good joys 
ob him, mum.” And without further explanation he hurried 
forth, leaving a perplexed lady and a miserable boy. 

“ Did you steal those chickens, Thaddeus? ” asked the Lady 
sadly. 

“Yes, muh,” he replied sullenly. 

“ What did you do with them? ” 

27 


When God Walks the Road 


“I gib dem to—to”—he hesitated a second, then with sud¬ 
den glibness, “ I gib dem to August.” 

“When did you do it?” 

“Yesterday, muh, when Uncle Scipio done ben at de Praise 
House,” he answered readily enough. 

“ Why, Thaddeus, you were here all the evening until Uncle 
Scipio returned from the Praise House, because the door was 
locked and you couldn’t get in.” 

Thaddeus looked up with genuine dismay on his face. “I 
forgot, muh, I ’spect I done stole dem chickens de night befo’,” 
he said stubbornly. 

“It is strange that Uncle Scipio did not discover it before. 
I must look into the matter.” 

“Please, muh, don’t!” pleaded Thaddeus eagerly, stretch¬ 
ing out his hand. “ I’ll sho’ tell yo’ de truf if yo’ never tell on 
August. He stole dese chickens. He broke his big brother’s 
gun, and he was afraid. Yo, see, muh, if August git a bad 
name hims ben have all de troubles like-a-me. Now, August, 
muh, he cyan’t stan’ all de troubles like I kin. He cyan’t 
fight. I neber wants August to git a bad name like-a-me. I 
got ’nough uv bad names. I ’speck yous-all name fo’ me 
ain’t much good, enny mo’?” he questioned wistfully. “ What 
dat yo’ calls me? ‘Li’le Foe ob Everybodies’? ” 

This time Thaddeus was telling the truth, The Lady 
knew that as she looked into his eager dark eyes. “ I have a 
better name for you now, ‘Little Friend of All the World.’” 

“Is dat a good name fo’ true, muh?” asked the child eager¬ 
ly. “ Do you 'spects de peoples’ll know Ise got a good name 
now? ” 

“They will know if you try to live up to it, Little Friend.” 

“Well,” said Thaddeus with a cheerful confidence, “ I ’spect 
I done live up to my oder name, an’ I ’spect I kin live up to 
my new name.” Then a sudden doubt crossed his mind. 
“ Don’t friends neber fight, muh? ” 

“ I am afraid they do sometimes,” the Lady admitted reluc¬ 
tantly. 

“Ise glad ob dat,” said the child fervently, “’cause Ise got 
to fight dem chillun to learn dem de mannerses. I ’spect yo’ 

28 


When God Walks the Road 


gwine to hab a hard time wid dem chillun in dat school if I 
ain’ been teach dem de mannerses,” he said with a solemn 
mischievous expression, and the Lady smiled at the touch of 
the old Thaddeus. 

Then he leaned over and seized the Lady’s hand in his two 
dark ones. “Please, muh, I ain’t gwine to tell you no lies, 
neber no mo’, ’cause—’cause we’s friends.”— Adapted by Every- 
land through courtesy of Southern Workman. 

29 


Xjhe Story of a Sr eat Choice 

MARY DE BARDELEBEN 

Once upon a time in a little parsonage home in Augusta, 
Ga., a wee boy was born. God had a great, big work for this 
boy to do when he grew up, and in his own wonderful way he 
meant to prepare him to do it. 

The boy’s parents helped him to get a good education, for 
they believed that God meant to use him for great things, and 
they, too, wanted him to be prepared. He taught school for 
a few years after his graduation from the South Carolina Con¬ 
ference College. For two or three years he was a preacher, 
and then God knew that he was ready for the big task. Can 
you imagine what it was? To teach in a school that our 
Church was to open for Negro boys and girls. 

This was a hard, hard task in those days, days when our 
mothers and fathers were little children. It had not been so 
many years since the Negroes were slaves. White people had 
not begun to realize that education should be given freely to 
every one, colored and white, alike. Some even went so far 
as to believe that Negro boys and girls could not learn. Mr. 
Walker’s friends did all that they could to discourage him, 
for they felt that he was throwing his life away. Even his 
mother, though she had brought him up to love God, did not 
want him to go into this work. She felt that it ought to be 
done, but she was sorry that God had called her boy to do it. 
The Negroes themselves were suspicious. They simply could 
not believe that he loved them enough to teach their little boys 
and girls. They thought surely he would leave them after 
a while for something that he might think a bigger work. 

But George Williams Walker was brave; and, better still, 
he was listening to God’s voice in his heart urging him to do 
something for these Negro children who would have little 
chance in life unless somebody helped to train their minds to 

30 


When God Walks the Road 


think clearly and their hands to work efficiently. Trusting 
in the Heavenly Father to find a way for him through all dif¬ 
ficulties, he answered the call. 

The school was opened in rooms over a grocery store on the 
main business street of the city. Among the crowd of well- 
scrubbed, shiny-faced children who presented themselves that 
first morning was a little brown fellow of whom I shall tell you 
more later. He pushed to the front and was the very first to 
enter his name. 

Very soon Mr. Walker was made president of the school. 
A sum of money was obtained and a site purchased in the sub¬ 
urbs. A beautiful lot it was, on which was an old residence 
and some horse stables. The residence was used for Mr. 
Walker’s home. The stables were cleaned, partitions added, 
windows put in, and thus classrooms were provided; while the 
hayloft above was fitted up as a place in which the students 
could.live. 

Year after year the school continued. Often the money 
was very scarce. One year Dr. Walker, as he now came to be 
called, got so salary at all, because some of the people who 
had promised to help forgot about it and didn’t pay. Other 
sorrows pressed upon his kind, loving heart. The young 
woman who had promised to be his wife refused to marry him 
as long as he taught in a Negro school. He would not give 
up his work, and the engagement was broken. Because they 
were not wise enough to understand that education and wealth 
and social standing are only given us to share, some people 
were very unkind to Dr. Walker, refusing to speak to him on 
the street and in other ways hurting him by their indiffer¬ 
ence, neglect, and their harsh, cruel words about his work. 

But the foundations of the school were being laid in the 
affections of the colored people. The old stables were filled 
with students, and “from then on to his death no other man 
lived and died more beloved by the colored people than 
George Williams Walker,” says one of his students. Little 
by little white friends too were found for the school—friends 
who did all in their power to help make it a success. Among 
these were Bishop Haygood, Bishop Duncan, and Dr. J. D. 

31 


When God Walks the Road 


Hammond, Secretary of the Board of Education. Other 
white friends came to help as teachers. A splendid new build¬ 
ing was put up, and the old stables were torn down. 

Years passed, and the boys and girls who came on that 
opening day grew into manhood and womanhood, many of 
them becoming strong leaders among their people. The lit¬ 
tle brown fellow who pushed forward in order to be the first 
to enter his name showed such unusual ability that Dr. 
Walker sent him, at his own expense, to a big Northern uni¬ 
versity. So exceptional was his work there that the big uni¬ 
versity gave him a scholarship to Athens, Greece. This boy 
was none other than John Wesley Gilbert, the man who has 
been so highly honored both by his own Church, the Colored 
Methodist Episcopal, and by ours; he who was sent as a dele¬ 
gate to a great missionary conference in London, England, and 
who accompanied Bishop Lambuth in his expedition into 
Africa for the purpose of locating our mission in that vast 
continent. 

Another one of Dr. Walker’s boys is now a bishop in his 
Church. One is a Y. M. C. A. secretary, touching the lives 
of thousands of young colored men every year. Still another 
is the principal of the largest Negro school in New Orleans. 
Preachers, teachers, physicians, dentists, editors, nurses, home¬ 
makers—all types of leaders have received from Dr. Walker 
the inspiration that has made them what they are, true serv¬ 
ants of the people. 

To Dr. Walker race and color did not count. His stu¬ 
dents were just human children whom he loved and to whom 
he gave his best. Because of his love for them, the Negroes 
trusted him implicitly as their friend and brother. Says Dr. 
Gilbert in speaking of his relations with his students: “I 
haven’t found one among the thousands he taught who in any 
way disliked him.” They loved him; and when his beautiful 
life came to its close, tender black hands helped to bear his 
tired body to its last resting place. 

So lived and worked and passed this beautiful spirit, follow¬ 
ing always the still small voice. Was it not worth while? 

32 


Jfcow Tljiung J?ci ^ounci Jfcer 9fame 

LILLIAN NICHOLS 

“Say, Kananie, where are you going?" 

“Home." 

“ Where’ve you been?" 

“Over to Kwetong’s." 

“What did you go for?" 

“To see the teacher." 

“Have any fun?" 

“Yes; it was splendid." 

“ Could you understand what she said? What did she look 
like? And what did she say? I wanted to go, but they told 
me to stay at home. Don’t go home. Let’s stay out here 
under the trees. It’s so hot at home." 

The speaker seated herself, and as she did so she gave the 
baby tied to her back an uncomfortable jolt which awakened 
him, causing him to cry. At this she began crooning to him, 
and, rising again, she jostled him from side to side. As his 
wails subsided she again seated herself on the ground. 

The girl called Kananie was twelve years old, tall and thin, 
with a strong, eager face and speaking eyes through which her 
soul looked forth upon a world that had treated her much 
more kindly than it did many, but which, after all, had been 
none too kind. 

The other child was even younger than Kananie. Her 
dress was dirty, and her hair was uncombed, while the fat 
baby on her back looked as if he had never been anything but 
dirty in all his life. 

The younger girl’s name was also Kananie, for “kananie" 
only means “little one" or “baby" and is really no name at 
all." 

Finally arranged comfortably, the younger girl leaned back 
against a tree and began wiping the perspiration from her 

33 


When God Walks the Road 


face with a corner of her dirty skirt. “Well,” she said, “tell 
me about the meeting. What did the woman look like? Is 
she pretty?” 

“No, not pretty,” came the asnwer. “She is too different 
to be pretty. She has greenish eyes and yellow hair. But 
she is nice and kind, and I like her. She has the sweetest 
voice, and I could understand everything she said.” 

“Did she talk to you any?” 

“Yes, she asked me my name. And then she taught us a 
song. She also gave me a picture.” 

“Got it now?” 

“ Yes; here it is.” 

“ What is it about?” 

“I don’t know what they are doing.” 

“What does it mean?” 

“Well, you see those who have lamps have oil in them, 
and those who are trying to get in this door didn’t get any oil 
in their lamps, so they can’t go in to the feast with the bride¬ 
groom.” 

“What bridegroom? Who was married? Was it a sure- 
enough feast?” 

“ I don’t know; I think so. She said the story all about the 
picture was in the book the Christians over there have. I’m 
going again to-morrow. See if you can’t get your people to 
let you come, too. Got to go home now and get supper ready. 

“O, I wish I could go, but I know they won’t let me.” 

The two girls separated, each going home to undertake the 
work of a grown woman. They lived in a small mountain 
village where as yet there were no Christians. The women 
shared the burdens of labor in the field with the men and were 
looked upon as being not far above the beasts of burden in 
intelligence. The children who were old enough also went 
to the field, and those too young for this stayed at home and 
watched the house and took care of the younger children. 
The next day Kananie hurried through her work and, in some 
way known only to herself, obtained her father’s grudging 
consent to her going again to the village on the other side of 
the mountain to the meeting. As she started out he called out 

34 


When God Walks the Road 


to her: “Don't fail to be back in time to get dinner. Your 
mother’s in the field, you know.” 

It was late already, and they would have begun the meeting, 
she knew. So she began running and did not stop till she had 
arrived at the farmer’s house where the gospel service was being 
held. She could hear singing; so she slipped in and took a 
seat quite near the door. The missionary recognized her with 
a smile of welcome. At the conclusion of the service she lin¬ 
gered as long as she dared, listening to every word and asking 
questions. 

The eager, longing eyes had attracted the missionary, and 
she was only too glad to give special attention to this little 
one. “O Father,” she prayed, “help me to say just the right 
words to this one of thy little children.” 

“Can you read?” she asked. 

“Yes,” came the answer. “My father teaches the boys in 
our village, and I begged him to teach me with my brothers. 
He said it was foolish and I’d never learn, but I studied so 
hard and can read some.” 

“What do you do all day long?” 

“Sometimes I work with my mother in the field; sometimes 
I get mulberry leaves from the mountains or gather brush¬ 
wood for the winter fires.” 

“Would you like to go to school?” 

There was a quick intaking of the breath, and the fine, 
bright eyes grew misty. “O, if I only could,” she said. 

The missionary gave her a Gospel and told her to read it 
every day and to pray to the Heavenly Father, who was able 
to make a way for her to do just that which would mean the 
best for her if she would trust him. 

It was many months before she found time to go again to 
that village. In the meantime Kananie had been going about 
her tasks in much the same way as usual; yet some change was 
to be seen in her. She was more careful with the baby, more 
considerate of her brothers, and more obedient to her parents. 
They noted the difference, but knew not the cause. If they 
had followed her to the mountain side where she worked and 
had seen what she did each day before beginning her task 

35 


When God Walks the Road 


they might even then not have understood, but only wondered 
First of all, she would throw herself on the ground and take 
out her precious little Gospel and read a chapter or two. Then 
she would pray, and this was always the burden of her prayer: 
“ O God, I do want to please thee. Show me how. My book 
says any one who loves thee may be pleasing unto thee. 
Dear Jesus, I want a name so much; I hate this name ‘Ka¬ 
nanie.’ And O, I want to go to school! Help, me, Lord, I 
pray." 

Spring had come again, and the missionary once more 
found her way to the village next to the one in which Kananie 
lived, and this time she even went to the very place. Ka¬ 
nanie was filled with joy, but she did not say much. However, 
her dancing eyes told the story of her gladness, and she per¬ 
suaded her father and mother to go to the meeting. 

As the story of the cross was told, this old man, to whom the 
story was not altogether new, was listening, and as he listened 
God spoke to his heart, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
“It was for my sins, you say? Tell me how I can get rid of 
this load of sin. Tell me quickly. Yes, I had heard the story 
from Kananie my daughter, but I thought it was only for the 
women; I did not know it was for me. Tell me more; tell me 
more." 

The native pastor talked with him till long past midnight, 
and when he went home it was with a determination to be¬ 
come a believer of whom Jesus might not be ashamed. 

“Now is my chance,” thought the missionary. So she be¬ 
gan about Kananie’s going to school. Her father made many 
excuses, but finally promised to let her start the next spring. 

Kananie’s joy knew no bounds. She could scarcely believe 
this wonderful thing was coming to her. Before the mis¬ 
sionary left the next morning she whispered in her ear: “I 
can’t thank the kind Father enough. He has done it all. 
And my father is not going to call me Kananie any more. He 
says I may choose a name for myself. I am going to take the 
name Miung Ja, because all seems so bright to me now, and 
I’m going to try to let the Master’s brightness shine through 


36 


When God Walks the Road 


How she loved the school from the moment she arrived 
there! Sometimes the rules were puzzling, and she could not 
understand just what they meant, but when they were ex¬ 
plained she earnestly tried to obey them. 

The system and order of the daily talks were a delight to 
her. Her mind absorbed knowledge as a sponge does water, 
and the teachers soon found that they could depend on her. 
Like a dream the days of the primary school passed, and she 
was promoted to the high school and admitted into the dor¬ 
mitory to board. She entered the self-help department, for 
it had been very hard for her father to pay all her board dur¬ 
ing her years in the primary school. 

The years in school quickly passed, bringing temptations 
and joys, each finding her more happy-hearted and more 
grateful for the privileges that were hers. She looked for¬ 
ward eagerly to her graduation, but she knew that as surely 
as it came there would also come the temptation to remain in 
the city. In the lonely watches of the nigTit she fought out 
the battles. There stood out before her the pitiful, hungry 
faces of the little children and the mothers who lived in poverty 
away back in the country. Christ wanted her to help these 
and win them for him. She knew this, and so she made the 
decision and gladly and gratefully went to the far-away places 
to tell the joyful story which had transformed her life and 
given her a name. 


37 


jfftm Jtfont? 7Jil j{nd the S'irst 
“ftike” 

ELLASUE WAGNER 

The golden glow of the August afternoon flooded the court¬ 
yard with light, and the intense heat of the Korean summer 
had driven the little girl to play in the shelter of a great tree 
that grew just inside the ancient gateway. 

The child was dressed in rich material and style, which 
proclaimed the fact that she was the daughter of a wealthy 
gentleman. Pangoonie was eight years old; she was one of the 
many children of the rich Chang Ho Ghung, and her life had 
been unusually peaceful and happy. Her large brown eyes 
were soft and luminous, and her sweet expression bespoke a 
gentle, timid nature. 

As Pongoonie sat under the tree and watched her brothers 
out in the road flying their huge kites, she laughed at the 
funny way their baggy white trousers stood out in the breeze; 
then her attention was drawn to an old man slowly passing and 
leading a cow. He stopped suddenly and gazed up the hill 
just beyond in amazement and fear. The little girl looked 
in the same direction, then cried eagerly: “O boys, do look! 
Look yonder! What is that strange thing coming down the 
hill?" 

The boys grasped the kite strings tighter and ran forward, 
exclaiming delightedly: “It’s the foreigner and his two¬ 
wheeled devil wagon!” 

It was indeed, an American riding through the country on 
his motor cycle, which is a thing seldom seen on these roads 
and little understood. 

“What a lovely place for a coast!” thought the man on the 
cycle as he started down the long, smooth grade. About 
halfway down he noticed that the old man had dropped the 

38 


When God Walks the Road 


rope by which he was leading the cow and that the poor ani¬ 
mal was showing unmistakable signs of fear. Her head was 
high in the air and her tail sticking straight out behind. 

“Hold her! Hold her!" gesticulated the rider wildly. 

The next moment he was trying to disentangle himself 
from the broken machine and saw that his would-be rescuer 
had rolled down the bank. After much spitting and rubbing 
he got some of the sand and dust out of his eyes and mouth, 
then he looked for the cow; bellowing loudly, she was just dis¬ 
appearing around a distant curve. Turning to the crestfallen 
man at his side, the American said meekly: “I meant for you 
to hold your cow, not my wheel." 

“I have done very badly, your excellency; I thought your 
carriage had run away,” replied the cow’s owner. 

The boys had drawn near to the scene of the fall, and when 
they understood the case they laughed long and loud. The 
dusty traveler chimed in with his merry laughter, but the 
other man had limped away after his straying property with¬ 
out seeing any fun in it all. 

Pongoonie was nowhere to be seen, but soon she reappeared 
bearing a large gourd full of sparkling spring water. The 
man received this with deep gratitude after his long, hot ride 
and drank it with evident enjoyment. 

The children gathered about the stranger and stood by, 
wild-eyed and eager, during the long hours of repairs, while 
the motor cycle’s owner patiently explained its mechanism and 
construction. 

Chang Ho Ghung was roused from his afternoon nap by 
the voices and noise of hammering just outside the door of his 
“sarang” and came forth to see what was going on. Soon 
he was as much interested in the proceedings as were his chil¬ 
dren and asked as many questions. 

Having finished the job, the tired American threw himself 
on the cool grass under the tree and, with a twinkle in his eye, 
turned to the Korean gentleman: “That is a very nice thing,” 
waving his hand in the direction of the motorcycle. “It 
saves me many long, tiresome walks and gives me much 
pleasure. You would find it very useful in this country. 

39 


When God Walks the Road 


Come now, tell me why it is that the men of America have 
invented this, while no Korean ever thought of such a thing. 
Are your people lazy? Certainly they are not stupid!" 

Mr. Chang squirmed a little under this sarcasm; then see¬ 
ing the teasing light in the American’s eyes, he laughed lightly 
and leaned on his elbow on the root of the tree as he replied 
carelessly: "O, my land is far ahead of yours in this respect. 
This machine is so old here that it has become new. The fact 
is that a Korean named Kim Hong Til invented it over six 
hundred years ago." 

"Is that so?” asked the other in surprise. He knew the 
characteristics of the Korean and that he will spin a splendid 
yarn in order to get ahead of another. So he settled back 
comfortably to listen to a good story. "Tell me about it, 
please," he petitioned expectantly. 

"Well, this one that Kim made was a very fine carriage, 
much better than yours, for it had two sets of machinery, a 
going-forth set and a coming-home set of gears. He used to 
ride about the country in great style and was envied by all the 
people, but he never gave away the secret of its manufacture. 
One day, however, the coming-home set of gears got out of 
order, and he took it off to repair it and set the carriage up 
against the house. While he was in the inner court mending 
the broken parts his mother came out of the house. Seeing 
her son's fine carriage leaning against the wall, she thought 
that she would enjoy a spin; so she mounted and rode away. 
Now, you see, the going-forth machinery was all right, but the 
coming-home set was off being mended. So the poor lady 
never came home; she was never heard of again, but is still 
riding about among the hills. 

"You must know that with a Korean filial piety is the 
greatest virtue in the world, and after such a calamity as the 
loss of a mother through the means of this thing Kim could 
never make another or bear to think of it. Thus his great in¬ 
vention was lost to the world. It was left for your men of 
the West to invent again that which was an old thing in this 
Land of the Morning Calm." 

He finished with a triumphant flourish, and the other gen- 

40 


When God Walks the Road 


erously acknowledged that his own native country was indeed 
six hundred years behind the time. This man was, however, 
a missionary, a man accustomed to taking advantage of every 
opportunity to tell the story of Jesus; so he continued: "Yes, 
your East is ahead of the West in more than one thing. Do 
you know that Jesus was a man of the Orient, of Asia, and 
early missionaries carried the message west instead of farther 
east, or probably you would have been sending the gospel to 
us?” 

"Is that true?” asked Mr. Chang with evident interest and 
pleasure. 

" It is indeed true,” answered the visitor. 

Mr. Chang had always been violently opposed to this 
strange foreign cult from the barbarous lands of the West, but 
this version of the affair threw a new light on the matter. 
"Peoples of the world are not so separate after all,” mused 
he. 

For a while they continued to talk, then he found himself 
the proud possessor of the little red book marked "Yohan 
Pokum,” the Gospel of John. He had before sworn never to 
touch "the accursed book from the West,” but he ran his eyes 
down the first page and lingered thoughtfully over the words: 
"In him was life, and the life was the light of men.” He 
thought over this a long time and then said: "So this means 
men of the East as well as the West!” 

The sun was hanging low over the distant mountains as the 
traveler mounted his wheel and rode away. Turning with 
a smile, he waved good-by to the little group in the dusty road 
behind, for in his heart was a deep love for these kind-hearted, 
gentle people of Korea. 


41 


73he Story of a Slave 33oy Who 

33ecame Sreat 

SARA ESTELLE HASKIN 

He was only a little boy, born in a cabin on a big plantation 
in Virginia. The cabin, which was his home, was also the 
kitchen for the folks in the “big house” at the front. He 
slept in the corner of this kitchen on a pallet laid on the dirt 
floor. He loved to eat, and he loved to play, and he loved to 
listen to stories just like the boys whose skins were white and 
who were not born slaves. How his big black eyes flew wide 
open with wonder as he listened to the stories of how his grand¬ 
parents were brought over in the slave ships, and how this 
little body thrilled with excitement as he listened to the whis¬ 
perings of the black folk and the excited talk among the white 
folk of the possible freedom that might come to him and his 
mother! What it all meant he did not quite understand, but 
something very wonderful he was quite sure. 

Looking at him, clad in his wooden shoes and his flax shirt, 
one would never believe it; but as he trudged back and forth 
to school each day, not to learn, but to carry the books of his 
little mistress, there was being born in his heart a great big 
desire to know things too, and, what was still more worth 
while, to be something really true and great. 

By and by the great day came—the day of freedom. He 
and his mother were free to leave the little cabin in the back 
yard; but where were they to go? His stepfather lived in 
West Virginia. This was several hundred miles away, and 
he and his mother and brothers must walk most of the way to 
get there. They finally started and were several weeks mak¬ 
ing the trip. Much of the time they slept out in the open and 
did their cooking over a log fire. 

When they reached their new home they found that the 
long-dreamed-of freedom was seemingly no better than the 

42 


When God Walks the Road 


old slave days back in Virginia; for this little boy with a big 
desire in his heart was put to work in a salt furnace and often 
began work as early as four o’clock in the morning. As hard 
as this was, however, it was here that his education was be¬ 
gun, for he learned to read and to write the figure “ 18,” which 
was the workman’s number allotted to his stepfather. 

In some mysterious way he soon secured an old blue-back 
spelling book and began to spell out words. 

After many trials he finally succeeded in gaining permis¬ 
sion to go to school for a few months by rising early in the 
morning and working in the salt furnace until nine o’clock 
and then returning after school. 

“ Booker ” was the only name that this boy had ever known; 
for the slaves, you know, had no surnames except those of 
their owners. He was always called just “ Booker,” and up to 
the time he had entered school it had never occurred to him 
that he needed any other. Imagine, however, that first morn¬ 
ing as he listened to the roll call! The teacher was calling the 
names—John Smith, Genevieve Jones, etc. What should he 
do when asked his name” He could not say just “Booker.” 
What do you think he did? When the last name was called 
and he was asked to report on his, he rose and calmly said: 
“My name is Booker Washington.” And so right then and 
there he named himself. Later he learned that his mother 
had given him the name Taliaferro, so always we have known 
him as Booker T. Washington. 

Finally young Booker heard of a wonderful school for col¬ 
ored people, called Hampton Institute, and the resolve was 
made that sometime he would be a pupil there. So one bright 
day, true to his great resolve, he started out with his shabby 
little satchel riding across the country in a stagecoach. It 
turned out that he had just enough money to reach Rich¬ 
mond, Va.; and he was compelled to stop in that city, working 
days and sleeping nights under the sidewalks until he could 
earn sufficient to carry him on to Hampton. When he finally 
reached the school he had in his pocket just fifty cents with 
which to begin his education. 

Hungry and ragged and dirty, Booker presented himself to 

43 


When God Walks the Road 


the head teacher as a candidate for an education. Her very 
looks were enough to discourage an ordinary boy; but his great 
desire, which was a flame that could never be extinguished, 
kept courage always in his heart. For hours he sat, while 
other boys were being admitted ahead of him. Finally the 
head teacher said: “The adjoining room needs sweeping. 
Take the broom and sweep it.” Most boys would have been 
discouraged at being assigned a task like this when they had 
trudged all over these miles to learn books, but not this boy. 
He said to himself; “Here is the chance of my life. If I make 
good here, I may be admitted to the school.” He swept that 
room over and over and dusted it in every corner and crevice 
many times. When the teacher came in she rubbed her hand¬ 
kerchief over the walls and woodwork and on the benches. 
Being unable to find one speck of dirt, she looked at Booker 
and said: “ I guess you will do to enter this institution.” And 
that was Booker T. Washington’s entrance examination and 
the beginning of a life of great usefulmess to his race. 

I need not tell you that a boy with a determination like that 
finished his course at Hampton Institute with the highest hon¬ 
ors, after having worked his way through under the greatest 
difficulties. 

And then, what did he do next? Nothing that the world 
would call great; but he did the very greatest thing that any 
young man could do, for he returned to his home, in West Vir¬ 
ginia, and gave to his own townspeople the things that he had 
learned. He would begin his teaching at eight o’clock in the 
morning, and it did not usually stop until ten at night. The 
boys and girls of that little town were taught not simply books, 
but, in addition, how to comb their hair, how to bathe, and 
how to brush their teeth. There was not only the day school, 
which was filled with eager children, but also the night school, 
to which the older folk came. In the midst of all this hard 
work Booker T. Washington was often heard to say: “I am 
supremely happy in the opportunity of being able to assist 
somebody else.” 

It was not long before he was called back to Hampton In¬ 
stitute as a teacher in that school. This was just the open- 

44 


When God Walks the Road 

ing of the door into the larger service to which he was to give 
his life. A call came for a man to come to Alabama and es¬ 
tablish a school that should help thousands and thousands of 
colored people to live better and to work better. Booker T. 
Washington, the man of the determined heart, was the one 
chosen. All the power that he had gained in overcoming dif¬ 
ficulties was needed now, for there followed years of toil and 
hardship before the great school known as Tuskegee Institute 
was finally built by the hands of its own students, even the 
bricks being made by them. That school stands there to-day 
as the greatest monument that could possibly be built to a little 
slave boy who became great by his own determination to sue 
ceed and to help others succeed. 

45 


‘Dorothy S’inds a e ll/ay 

ETTA FULKERSON 

“John, John! What’d you get mother’s car out for?” 
panted Dorothy Deupree as she bounded across the lawn and 
plumped herself down beside the black driver before he had 
time to stop the car in the driveway. 

“ Law, chile, how does I know? Missus jes’ tole me to have 
it out here by a quarter pas’ five.” 

“Listen, John,” she confided. “I want to get Mary Mar¬ 
tin, a little girl from the cotton mill, and bring her home to 
stay all night to-night. You know mother won’t hear to it. 
What am I to do? ” 

“Law, honey, I don’t know that, nuther! But I does know 
little Mer Martin wouldn’t be killin’ herself in dem mills ef 
some o’ them club women’s husbands wahn’t breakin’ de law. 
But I reckon ef dey don’t their wives couldn’t wear so much 
finery an’ spend so much time talkin’ ’bout charity. An’ I 
reckon the best uv ’em’ll kill people fuj* money.” 

“What do you mean, John? The club women are awfully 
good to the mill people. Don’t you know they built them a 
library last year? And right now in our house they are plan¬ 
ning a gymnasium for them.” 

John threw back his head, and how his two rows of firm 
white teeth did glitter! “A gymnasia!” he chuckled. 
“Ef some feller what didn’t know me should send me a wax 
doll fur Christmas, wouldn’t it be kind of him? Why, them 
poor folks is that tired when they comes out o’ them mills 
they can’t hardly drag one foot ’fore de udder. What does 
they want with a gymnasia? What dey wants is a day’s pay 
fur a day’s work.” 

“How do you know so much, John?” asked Dorothy ad¬ 
miringly. 

“Law, chile, I don’t know so much! I only knows some of 

46 


When God Walks the Road 


the mill folks, what nary a club woman does. An’ while I don’ 
care nothin’ much fuh that white trash myself, I don’ like to 
see nuthin’ killed by slow pizen. Shootin’s lots better. And 
the mills suah does kill ’em little by little. They’d bettah 
stay in de mountains whah they come from.” 

“Well, anyway, John, won’t you help me out this evening? 
Don’t understand any of mother’s directions, but listen close¬ 
ly to mine.” 

“ Trus’ me, chile,” said John as Dorothy flew back to get her 
hat, for the palatial home had begun to pour forth swarms of 
elegant costumes. 

Dorothy had been back several minutes, waiting in the seat 
beside John, when her mother and the last of her guests came 
strolling toward them. “Do hurry, mother!” urged Doro¬ 
thy. “It’s almost closing time. And won’t you let John 
drive us to the big mill? I want to get little Mary Mar¬ 
tin to show us where she lives, so we can ask her aunt to let 
her stay all night with us to-night. Mildred Marshall is com¬ 
ing over, too, you know.” 

“What? A mill hand? Indeed, you’ll not, you ridiculous 
child! Don’t you know those people are just like animals?” 

“O mother! Do you know any of them?” protested Doro¬ 
thy. “Our teacher took our class to the mill this morning, 
and Mildred and I made friends with Mary, and she’s awfully 
sweet. Do let me get her, mother.” 

“No, indeed! I offered to take Mrs. Holloway home; and 
then we have to go by for father, and it’s getting late.” 

“Don’t let me interfere,” said Mrs. Holloway, casting a 
furtive glance of sympathy into Dorothy’s pleading eyes. 
“ I’m in no hurry at all, and I have a curiosity to get a glimpse 
of the mill people myself.” 

“Very well, then. To the office and then to the big mill, 
John,” said Mrs. Deupree. 

Father, the president of the milling company, a very capa- 
ple-looking man of affairs, was soon picked out of a handsome 
downtown office and deposited in a corner of the back seat. 
Here, apparently oblivious to the talk of the women, he gave 
himself up to rest. 


47 


When God Walks the Road 


Soon the limousine was rolling along a broad, peaceful canal 
with austere walls of brick and stone and tall chimneys on one 
side and the tiny cottages of the workers on the other. 

Dorothy’s heart began to sink with fear that the mills had 
closed already, for they kept passing groups of small boys that 
looked like diminutive old men. But it bounded with hope 
again as the whistle blew just before they reached the mill 
gate. Her keen eyes searched eagerly the drooping flood of 
humanity that poured through. But the last one passed out, 
and no Mary appeared. “Drive slow, John, and follow the 
biggest crowd,” she whispered, still gazing intently at the 
moving throng. 

Presently she gave a sign to stop, and the next instant she 
was out upon the sidewalk interviewing a girl she had seen 
with Mary in the spinning room in the morning. Back again, 
she whispered directions for Mary’s home while her mother 
was saying to Mrs. Holloway: “ I sometimes think that Doro¬ 
thy must be the strangest child that ever lived.” 

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Holloway, “if this world wouldn’t 
be better off if there were more strange children in it.” 

But soon they were so engrossed in their gymnasium plans 
that they took no notice of the car stopping in front of one of 
the three-room cottages. Dorothy crossed the filthy yard and 
porch eagerly, only to return in despair. 11 Wrong house, 
John,” she said with her face straight forward. “And they 
don’t know where she lives.” 

“What else could we ’spect,” mused John, when the houses 
is all alike, an’ that poor girl you asked was too tired to know 
straight up? But we’ll get Mer Martin ef we has to stop at 
ever’ one of ’em. So don’ worry, honey.” 

“We can’t do that, John. Mother would soon begin to 
notice. Let’s try this same house in the next block.” 

But they hadn’t gone far when Dorothy’s eyes almost 
popped out of her head for joy. “There she is, John!” she 
shouted in a stage whisper. “Do you see that little brown 
dress about a half block away, hurrying up the street?” 

“Sho!” We’ll git her,” and the next moment the car was 
stopping beside the moving figure. 

48 


When God Walks the Road 


Dorothy was out by the time the machine had stopped; 
and with no more explanation than “I’m Dorothy Deupree,” 
she gathered the slight little Mary in her strong arms and 
placed her on-a jump seat in front of her mother, while 
she herself knelt beside her. 

“Where are you going, Mary? We’ll take you there.” 

“I was going for Dr. Sims, five blocks up the street. We 
all think my aunt can’t live through the night,” she explained. 
“It made her so much worse ’cause I had to quit work. You 
see, Mrs. Cooper has been so good to keep us these two months 
while my aunt has been so sick; and now that my wages are 
gone, aunt don’t know what to do. But Mrs. Cooper don’t 
think of herself at all. She tells aunt not to worry; that we’ll 
get along somehow these two years, and then I can work 
again.” 

“Why did you have to quit, Mary?” asked Dorothy. 

“ O, all the children under fourteen had to quit to-day, ’cause 
they was a factory inspector ’round.” 

An unobserved crimson overspread father's face, but he 
gave no other sign of consciousness. 

They found the doctor without mishap and soon had him 
back at the cottage. By some mysterious power Dorothy and 
Mary lured the whole party inside. Mrs. Cooper welcomed 
the guests with a silent gesture and smile, for the sick woman 
began talking immediately. “Doctor, can’t nothin’ be done 
for dear, good Mrs. Cooper?” she began. “She says 
she’s goin’ to keep my little Mary and Sue these two years 
until Mary is old enough to work again. But she has her 
mother and own little boy of eleven. And two more’s too 
many.” 

“O mother,” cried Dorothy, flinging her arms passionately 
about her mother's silk-gowned form, “there is so much room 
at our house and so much to eat and to wear! Can’t we 
take Mary and Sue home with us to be my sisters?” 

“No, you absurd child! They wouldn't be happy in our 
house. They wouldn't understand us, nor we them.” 

“I can love them if I can’t understand them,” said Mrs. 
Holloway, stepping to the bedside. “I have no children, but 

49 


When God Walks the Road 


I too have plenty to eat and to wear. Can you trust me as 
well as Mrs. Cooper with Mary and Sue?" 

"Are you an angel?" asked the sick woman. 

"Not so fast," interposed the doctor. "I can help you, 
and you may be wanting Mary and Sue yourself in about a 
week." 

"No, doctor; I don’t need nothin’. I’m so happy!" she 
said as a radiant smile lighted her face. "I see Jesus stand¬ 
ing in a wonderful forest by the mountain stream. The 
ground beneath the tall trees is covered with grass and flow¬ 
ers, and beautiful children are playing in it. I am going 
right now to meet him." 

"Just a moment," said the president of the company, 
grasping the thin hand as if to hold back the departing spirit. 
"Please tell your Master when you meet him that by his 
leave all the workers in this factory district shall have better 
homes, shorter hours, and higher wages, or John Deupree is 
no longer president of the company." 

It was with open-mouthed amazement that John received 
only father and Dorothy back into the car with directions for 
the undertaker’s. The trip was made in silence, but as soon 
as father had gone in Dorothy related with breathless haste all 
that had happened in the cottage. 

"Ugh!" grunted John. "So the big boss found he had a 
heart stowed away som’urs. Lawdy, honey, that must be 
where you got your heart o’ gold!" 

50 


U/ie Whitest Sift of jfii 

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK 

Of course Maria Maud had a father an<i mother. The fa¬ 
ther had been unable to work for two reasons: he was lazy and 
proud. His pride forbade his working in the mill for wages 
no self-respecting man would accept while his wife could work. 
His laziness was an excuse for believing he was sick. So he 
sat by the wretched fire the long winter through and on 
the tumble-down porch the long summer through, smoking— 
always smoking. The poor mother had no spirit or courage. 
She was a woman of the hills, and she thought she saw her 
duty. “He”—so she spoke of her husband—“had to be fed 
and looked after,” and so she worked in the mill. In a poor, 
sad fashion she loved her baby and wondered about it. She 
named it Maria Maud because that seemed to her the most 
beautiful name on earth, and she wished in a vague way that 
she could keep the baby pretty and clean and dimpled; but 
of course she couldn’t—but she meant to do her part in keeping 
Maria Maud from being wicked. And what do you think she 
did in order to achieve this? She took her baby always with 
her to the mill. The father said he’d look after the child, 
but the mother said “ No.” So she carried little Maria Maud 
to and fro, even when her back ached and her legs trembled 
and the whirring sound the machines made rang in her ears 
long after she left the mill. 

In a soap box under the trees the lonely baby slept or cried 
or cooed, with no one to heed until the noon hour, when the 
mother came and lifted the tiny form and hugged it. 

As she grew older, Maria Maud “helped along” at home 
while her mother was in the mill, and by the time she 
was eight she looked sad and hopeless. Then the father died. 

Only one thing repaid the mother for her toil and suffering: 
Maria Maud was not wicked. She had the most beautiful 

51 




When God Walks the Road 


dreams and fancies; and sometimes, when she was not too 
tired, she told her mother about them. They had a queer 
game they called “ You first,” and they began to play it or say 
it after the father died. 

“What do you want most in the world?” Maria Maud 
would ask. 

“You tell first,” said the mother. 

“No, you!” 

“No, you!” And so it would go until the mother had to 
smile, though she thought she had forgotten how. 

Finally it came out that the mother wanted most of all in 
the world a “tombstun”! 

When Maria Maud heard that, she was terribly shocked; 
for she wanted her mother, and a “tombstun” meant no 
mother and an empty, empty cabin and long black nights. 

“I knows,” explained the mother, “that I be right selfish 
and perky, being as yo’ pa ain’t got no stun nor never ’spec’s 
none; but you knows, Maria Maud, that yo’ pa didn’t ever 
do a ’commodation job for us all, and he had his ’baccy first 
yand last; and so I ain’t jes’ plain mean in wantin’ a tombstun. 
And now what do you want most in the world?” 

“Well”—and Maria Maud’s face was very wistful—“I 
want l’arnin’.” 

“What fur?” gasped the mother. 

“I doesn’t know. I jes’ want it somethin’ tumble.” 

“Ye’d have to go to school.” 

“Yes.” 

“And ye’d have to give somethin’ for lamin’.” 

“Yes, but that’s what I want most, even if I never gets it.” 

“ Well, chile, I reckon you’ll git that as easy as I get a tomb¬ 
stun.” 

And then they both smiled and looked at each other as 
mothers and little girls do at times the world over. 

And then the mother died—died so suddenly, so unex¬ 
pectedly that Maria Maud could not comprehend what had 
befallen her at first—not until the thin, worn body was laid 
among the “many graves” and the long, black nights settled 
down upon the empty cabin. Even then Maria Maud did not 

52 


When God Walks the Road 


cry. She suffered in a poor dumb fashion, and her eyes grew 
big and haunted. 

Dear little Maria Maud had always been reaching up. 
Work could not blind the light of her soul and kill her 
ambitions and poverty. 

One day when the whistle blew Maria Maud laughed aloud. 
She printed something on a piece of paper (how she had 
learned to do that God and herself alone knew); she tied her 
few articles of clothing in a bag; then she set forth. At first 
she ran; then she went slower, for it was a hard road, and she 
was not strong. Finally she sat down to rest by the side of 
the muddy, hilly road with a crumpled envelope held high 
in her thin hand. “Only a mile more!” murmured she. 
“A mile more, and—then!” The thought gave her strength. 
She had walked or run seven miles, and she had had nothing 
to eat all day! 

It was twilight time when Miss Mary Alvin, sitting on the 
porch of her tiny home school, saw bedraggled little Maria 
Maud coming up the path. Mary Alvin was a teacher, a 
tender woman, and, at the heart, the merriest soul that ever 
lived and loved a joke above anything. Lately she had been 
a bit homesick and was feeling rather low-spirited as Maria 
Maud came in view. “This is no joke!” she thought and 
got up to welcome the stranger. “You want—me?” she 
asked so kindly that Maria Maud trembled. 

“Yes’m.” She did indeed want her and need her; but she 
said “Yes’m” in a very hard, dry tone. 

“What do you want, little girl?” 

“L’arnin’. And I kin pay. I kin, I kin!” 

Maybe this was a joke, after all! Miss Alvin’s eyes danced. 
“Come up,” she said. “Now sit down in this nice, comfy 
rocker. No; lean back. That’s what the chair’s for. I’m 
going to get you a glass of milk and some cookies.” 

Maria Maud drank and ate, but she could not lean back. 
She was rigid and cold with excitement. 

“And now, my child, tell me all about it.” 

They faced each other, and Maria Maud began. She had 
not gone far when Mary Alvin was sobbing pitifully, but 

53 


When God Walks the Road 


Maria Maud went on and on in her monotonous drawl. She 
was emptying her sad, troubled life into the heart of this 
woman who could understand. 

“She wanted a tombstun, miss. I marked the place, and 
I can find it, no matter when I go back. And she can look 
down and—and see it, and she’ll wait until I get rarninV 

“And—and—you can pay? What have you to give, you 
poor, precious child?” 

Then Maria Maud got up stiffly and walked over to Miss 
Alvin. “This!” she said simply and handed out the crum¬ 
pled envelope. 

There was just enough light to see by, but the tears in Mary 
Alvin’s eyes blinded her. She wiped them away and tore the 
envelope apart. A scrap of paper was within—brown paper, 
soiled and unlovely—and upon it was scrawled: “I give my¬ 
self.” 

Something happened to Mary Alvin then. She seemed to 
be in a holy place, and she waited. Then she heard words— 
plain words they were, words of the hills and of the people 
whom others had forgotten. The meaning of the words was 
what mattered, and the meaning kept chanting over and over: 
“I gave my life for thee, for thee; what hast thou done for 
me?” 

The plain words were repeating: “I can work! I can work. 
There’s wood to fetch and tote; there’s water to haul and fires 
to mind. Early and late I’ll work and work—for l’arnin’.” 

Maria Maud dropped beside Mary Alvin. She had come to 
the end of her strength. She could not talk or promise any¬ 
thing more; but she could hear, and something was happen¬ 
ing indeed. Arms were about her, and tears were on her 
cheeks. 

“O, the white, white gift of self! You poor child! Yes, I 
will give you learning; and we will—we will play together and 
find happiness and God among the hills, you and I together.” 


If you should see Maria Maud now, you would know that 
she and Mary Alvin had found their Holy Grail; for Maria 

54 



When God Walks the Road 


Maud’s face is happy and sweet, and willing feet carry her 
upon her tasks of love and mercy. Little children learn of 
her now; and tired mothers come to her, knowing full well 
that she will understand. 

But remember, all you who read this story, there are many, 
many Maria Mauds in our Southern hills willing to give them¬ 
selves for learning, but whose feet cannot find the way alone. 
—Adapted from story sent out by Child Labor Committee. 

55 















